Before she sang of what was older and pulled a clump of weeds from the garden, before she pushed a younger version of herself clad in overalls and one striped sock, down the street in a stroller,
Before he brought a polka dot tie as a white elephant gift for the Christmas Party at New York’s biggest law firm, before he ever saw the first snowflake of December,
She was a waitress. Calmly frazzled, waiting for the future
to not be found in the pancake batter and orange juice from last Sunday. He was in a booth, poked with holes from a child stabbing knives into the plastic and cutting food with crayons.
Their eyes would meet for a second. She would look at his blue questions about extra syrup and a side of salsa, and she would hurry off, slipping on a puddle of milk or apple juice, catching his grin.
He was consumed with her, not the feast of chocolate chips. The way her shoes squeaked on the tile, the way she brushed her hair back and showed the black mark of year long
sweating. But once the bill came, and the name inked,
She entered the kitchen and he entered the lot.
Before acknowledging their futures at all.
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